Lost and Crippled
by Ms. Audrey G
Summary: AU. September of 1947. Murders are shaking the city of Blue Spring. Not surprising. Death is not an easy issue to take. Fear is hardly welcoming either. But with Homicide Detective Sisyphus Sterling, and his partner, El Cid Rivers, on the job, there is nothing to fear. That is until the past comes creeping behind and there is nowhere else to run for one particular detective…
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Saint Seiya The Lost Canvas characters are not mine.

**A/N**: Short story—Five to six chapters in total. 1940's era. I don't know if the detectives wore gloves but I would imagine that they would have some. I looked at old pictures that I could find on the web, watched directors interpretation of the 1940's, and used _L.A. Noire_—good game, by the way—as references.

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**Chapter One  
**

September 3, 1947.

It was an early day in Blue Spring City.

The streets had never been so empty, aside for a few early birds traveling to the country side to work. A few citizens walked on the sidewalk with their jackets pulled close to their throats. Fear had never felt overwhelming as it was the past weeks.

In a twenty-four hour period, three murders had occurred. In the past several weeks, bodies have been found around the city. Blue Spring had its run with crime, low as it was. But it drastically changed when the small city had to face with a loose serial killer.

There were many things that Yato Prince had come to accept in Blue Spring City. Dirty cops and drug dealers were something he could handle. But a serial killer, attacking at night, with no clues to find who he or she was, now that he could not handle.

_Well, there is a first for everything_, Yato Prince bitterly thought.

He groggily walked away from the witness he questioned, and cursed the killer for the early rise. The purple stain of dawn governed the sky. The morning star, the only one he saw low on the horizon, gradually disappeared in oblivion. He shivered as an early breeze slithered past. Forgetting to put on an extra shirt underneath his uniform, he futilely attempted to pull his jacket closer to his neck to block the morning chill.

Up the hill, he trudged, pushing his legs to climb the steep trail. He found the body near a tree, its leaves now changed into a jaundiced yellow. The wind slithered past once more, rattling the sycamore branches. He saw a leaf fluttered to the ground in a puddle of yellow, and a few brown leaves, that rested around the tree.

He crouched toward the victim and inspected her injuries. There was nothing left to her. He sighed at his failure to protect and serve.

"Another body…" He shook his dark locks. Turning his blue eyes away from the corpse, he lifted a hand and laid it underneath his nose. The stench was overwhelming. "Just our damn luck," he mumbled.

"The numbers keep escalating," a soft, masculine voice said from behind.

Yato turned his head and brought his eyes to stare up toward the detective. He took noticed of his attire—a black fedora hat, a sleek three-piece black suit, and expensive dress shoes contrasted against his white-collar and red-striped tie. As a bonus to his clear wealth, he had immaculate features with blue eyes, blond hair and a pale complexion. Feeling inferior under his gaze, Yato rose on his feet and addressed him with a stern face.

"I hope we catch our killer soon, Detective."

A crease line settled in between his brows. The detective blinked his eyes once and stared at the young officer in front him. Yato felt as if the detective was noticing him for the first time. He received that a lot from his peers. Having a lean physique, a notable of freckles sprinkled across his face, he was hardly dashing as the detective himself. Probably the best feature he carried was his dark, blue eyes.

The detective broke into a smile. Yato restrained his surprise when he discovered the upmost expression of kindness painted on his face. It was a bluff—one that he knew too well when he dealt with detectives like him. But he couldn't find the reek of deceit on the detective. Still he made a convincing show, but it wasn't enough to make Yato Prince a fool to believe in his fake appearance.

"Detective Sisyphus Sterling," the detective greeted.

It was his turn to give a name. But he was star struck at the man in front of him. Sisyphus Sterling—the hero of Blue Spring City who solved the Henderson Case five-years-ago was standing before him. He had barely entered the police division when he had heard of the hardworking detective putting away a madman's hatred toward women. It was the case of the year and no doubt it brought the detective to fame.

His left hand began to shake in fear. Not wanting to make a fool out of himself, he moistened his lips and tried to force back the nervousness in his voice.

"O-O-Officer Yato Prince." He stuttered like a schoolgirl stricken in fear of being in front of her crush. How humiliating. No doubt that smile on his face was restraining the mirth he held.

"Have you spoken to the witness?"

Straight to the point, Yato recovered from his nervousness and easily converted to his professional impassive stance.

"Yes, I have."

He lifted his head toward the witness standing near the police cruiser, staring hollowly at the ground beneath his feet. His partner, Regulus Stuart, stood out-of-place with a comforting smile on his face. He patted the witness twice on his back and spoke endlessly about whatever he found intriguing enough to share with a stranger.

Fresh into the field, the young officer brought his contiguous cheerful demeanor and innocent grin to work. Yato gave him a month before that smile would no longer be on his face. And with it, his cheerfulness would be replaced with an impassive attitude like the others.

The detective followed his eye and noticed his partner. The captain was drunk to have assigned him with Stuart. Feeling slightly embarrassed of his partner's behavior, Yato proceeded to continue with his report, critically essential for the detective to hear. But bfore he began, he couldn't help but notice that the detective had a soft smile on his lips.

And it was directed at Regulus.

Yato kept his thoughts to himself.

"Victim's name is Yuzuriha Crest. From my standpoint, she couldn't fight back."

"Has anyone been informed of her death?"

Yato gave a light cough. "Didn't need to be informed. He already knew." He looked toward the witness for a brief moment. "Witness—Shion Steel—mentioned he received a call at around four in the morning. It seems our killer felt remorse and pinpointed the directions toward the scene."

"I see." The detective wrote the information down in his small pad, his pencil moving fluently to his words.

"He came toward the scene around five and decided to investigate," Yato continued, "Eventually he found the body exactly as it was left. We received the call a little after six. Luckily, the crime scene was close to our division."

The detective lifted his head from his pad and stared at him. "He took an hour to call it in?"

"Seems so." Yato took a side-glance at the witness. "I found it strange too and questioned him. He went nuts; said I was pinning her death on him."

He saved his pad and pencil inside his coat. "Do you know where he works?"

"Didn't say." Yato shrugged. "The guy refused to talk after his little outburst and preferred to stay with my partner." He hesitated for a moment before he reluctantly spoke his mind freely. "If you ask me, he's hiding something. I don't know what but I'm quite positive that he's retaining valuable information to catch the killer."

Another smile, most wholeheartedly given to his keen observation, captured his lips. He felt his heart swell at being recognized for his intellect and observation. However, as fast as his heart soar with pride, it was easily shattered with cool numbness of being put off as wrongly observing the human behavior.

"Don't mistake anger with motive. The man is hurt. That woman was very dear to him."

And it wasn't Sterling that spoke. On the contrary, it was his serious partner that addressed him as he continued labeling his behavior as a child eager to solve the test without studying beforehand. His cheeks blared with a hot intensity of being humiliated in front of Sterling.

"I spoke to the coroner." His partner focused on Sterling.

Yato stood at the side, invisible to their eye. He studied Sterling's partner. Wearing the same attire as his friend, the only difference being that his suit was gray and his tie was navy blue, El Cid Rivers was just like he was written in the newspaper. Cold, with serious features, the man held a high dedication to his line of work and always strove to bring justice to the city.

The citizens respected him; some even admire him; while others were put off with his cold indifference. And Yato didn't blame those that disliked him. He too was beginning to dislike the man in front of him.

Purple eyes settled upon him in an instance. Yato froze at his cold stare and repressed the urge to shudder.

"The media will be arriving soon. Handle it and avoid any topic about the Night Crawler's latest victim."

Once he finished giving orders, Detective Rivers turned away and focused on the crime scene. Sisyphus followed behind him. Not a single word of thanks was given to Officer Prince and his soon-to-be-efforts to keep the media at bay. No matter. That was the detectives of Blue Spring. Prideful son-of-bitches looking down at the lower ranking of the police force.

Yato wanted to spit at their faces. It was a childish thought, he knew. But it made him angry that his hard-work was stomped on by egocentric detectives. For a moment, he almost bought that Sterling was different from the rest. His mistake of assuming he would be the one to actually give him a pat on the back for his hard labor.

As the detectives focus on the crime scene, he faded into the background (as he always did) and headed down the hill. The media began to arrive to the scene. He prided himself in his work and mentally patted his back. Because unlike the detectives in Blue Spring, he didn't have his name printed on every newspaper in the city when a case was solved. Nope, instead, he merely had the congratulations from his wife and dog at home—and nothing else mattered without their gratification.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

For many a sight of a corpse would have shattered their mind and ruin them for life. But Homicide Detective Sisyphus Sterling was beyond impractical to break. Painfully, he grew used to the many bodies that he had seen in his line of work. However, there were those in his field that could not handle the sight of death. That is why psychiatrists came to visit their division and questioned them. Sisyphus was glad that he was not one of the few that broke down into madness.

He looked away from the body and turned his attention to the people residing below the hill. The witness leaned near the police cruiser with Regulus glued to his side, offering ample support. Then he noticed Yato Prince blocking the media from intervening with the crime scene. The coroner was nearby, caught in the fire of barreling questions that demanded answers from the press.

Sisyphus shook his head at the impatient and overbearing media looking for a scoop to rattle the looming fear over the public. He turned away from the scene below and focused his attention toward El Cid and Manigoldo Russet, a crime scene photographer. Manigoldo angled his camera to a side when El Cid exposed her neck. Red markings tainted her pale skin. The light of the camera flashed off.

From what Sisyphus had heard from today, three murders had occurred, each of separate times. Although, his killer had a preference—blond-hair, middle-aged women—he sorrowfully discovered that his killer had murdered a family of three and kidnapped the brother, a negative sign that he was now attacking families. And he knew it was his killer when he noticed his trademark, a dark, plastic feather tied around the loop of the victim's ring. Not even the media knew of that detail, proving the chances of a copycat to none.

What could have spurred the madman to kill a family three—Sisyphus didn't know. But he knew that his killer had murdered them out of rage. Perhaps, he knew them on a personal level. It's hard to tell with the lack of evidence.

'The Night Crawler'—as the media labeled him—was a cunning, organized killer attacking solely at night, hence the name. Never leaving a trace of evidence behind, he knew exactly how to erase his marks, leaving the police to question his existence. But everyone knew that he did exist. The bodies were proof of that along with his signature mark.

Bending down to his knees, Sisyphus examined the victim's face from a side. Batter, torn, and bloody—it was unidentifiable. His eyes traveled toward her chest. Pink blouse ripped apart, her pale skin held deep lacerations. Bruises covered her ribcage. A heavy object must've been used to crush her ribs.

Like every victim, she was laid on her back, hands folded below her belly. Her legs were laid out straight. The only piece of clothing she wore was the pink tattered blouse. From what El Cid had told him no sexual assault had taken place but the coroner had still advised him that he will investigate further at the autopsy.

He turned his attention back to her face, mostly examining the state of her hair. Brushed neatly to a side, he even tucked her hair behind her ears. It was a sign of a remorse; a sign that his killer knew her well. Again, the thought of the killer knowing the family was questionable. Unlike the other victims, she, Yuzuriha Crest, was someone important. But no matter the importance, it wasn't enough to stop the killer from killing her in a senseless act.

As he turned his eyes away, he caught something familiar. He noticed a strange insignia tattooed on her arm. Sisyphus knew he had seen it before in a particular area but the memory would not surface, not even when he thought hard enough.

Distracted, he turned his head when El Cid called for his attention.

"The coroner wishes to speak with you."

"About?"

"Have you lost your senses of where you are at, Sisyphus?"

Aware of the question, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "No."

It seemed missing a few hours of sleep had inflicted his sense of awareness. Apologizing for his behavior, he stood and approached the coroner standing near the peak of the hill. He was waiting for the gurney to arrive with two paramedics ambling up in soft steps.

"Jones," Sisyphus greeted. "You wanted to speak to me?"

Luco Jones, a fairly, reasonable man, with a rare shade of green hair, strayed his attention toward Sterling and gave a partial greeting. His youthful face defied against his age. But the wrinkles around his eyes proved that the man was older than he looked.

"It's about the victim's tattoo."

Sisyphus frowned. It seemed he wasn't the only one who found it familiar.

"What about it?"

He paused for a moment before he spoke, "I've seen it before. It belongs to a small group of Tibetans; a very proud race. They mark their bodies with the family heirloom. It's meant to embody a promise of their generation to continue to the next life. Last time I heard, they have a church."

Sisyphus had troubled remembering the church, but he did remember the Tibetans. He had a nanny from that race, whose nephew became his friend and a witness to a crime today. She was very kind; sported a missing tooth on the bottom of her front teeth. And he remembered that she had the same similar tattoo that the victim bore.

"Do you know where it's located?"

"If I remember correctly it's on 56th street; can't miss it. It's the only one looking as a medieval castle."

"Thanks, Doc."

"No problem, Sterling." He glanced at the victim for a moment. "Poor girl. Drugged and strangled to death. She couldn't fight back."

"What about the bruising on her chest? Does that not relate to her death?" Sisyphus asked.

Luco shook his head. "From my assumption, those bruises happened after her death. Whoever this girl was to the killer, he hated her dearly to leave her in that state."

"But that doesn't explain why he brushed her hair?"

"My guess," said Luco, "was that she was more than a kill for him. This was personal." Turning his main attention toward the paramedics, he strolled toward the corpse and spoke to the crime scene photographer.

Sisyphus sighed and leaned his weight on one foot, looking down at the frantic media being pushed back by the police force. They were all part of Blue Spring. Citizens like the rest. Suddenly, he felt a heavy pressure on his shoulders. It was the type of weight that consumed him from time-to-time as it heavily rang through his veins as a shudder of fear.

Their lives were in his hands. And Sisyphus never felt so helpless. Suppressing a sigh, he forced back his fear in a swallow of determination to capture the killer.

Softly, he felt a hand against his shoulder-blade. He tore his eyes away from the scene and stared into the comforting expression his friend could muster. A light smile tore at his displeasure. Relieved that he was not alone, Sisyphus led his partner toward the witness in small, approaching steps.

"How do you feel about this?"

He kept his eyes straight ahead. "He is a witness—we treat him as such."

"He is an old friend."

"An old friend that we have not seen for ten years," countered Sisyphus.

El Cid grunted. "I can handle this. Can you?"

"I always do."

There was a short silence entering between the two. But the silence shattered at the sound of El Cid's sigh. "He was going to marry that girl."

His eyes traveled toward his partner in a quick glance. El Cid appeared serious but he saw a flash of regret sparkle in his eye before he blinked away. It was as if he made a mistake mentioning the personal life of Shion Steel—which he did, badly. Shion Steel is a witness, not a friend.

Shion was no longer the man they used to hang out with ten-years-ago at the soccer field along with the others. He was no longer the man he used to converse about the philosophy of life and death. That kind-hearted person was a witness to a crime. Sisyphus could not let his personal life intervene with his job. El Cid knew that.

"If this gets personal for you, El Cid—"

"It's not, Sisyphus," El Cid cut through his sentence. "I can handle this. I handled this before with the Ferusa case. I can handle it again." He kept silent after that.

Sisyphus decided to distract himself, curbing through the eventual prolonged silence. He looked at the area around him. There were clumps of chickweed and thistle surrounding him in patches. He heard a few twigs snap underneath his dress shoes. He knew by know that his shoes carried dust. Past the crime scene, there was a billboard sign, although faded and dull, display, "Welcome to Blue Spring City," in bold yellow.

Sisyphus scoffed at the sign, and mentally rearranged the greeting to appear as: "Blue Spring City—population: 20,053, and one serial killer. Six murders. No suspects. What a day for a citizen."

By the time he turned his attention toward the witness, Regulus Stuart began to make his way toward them, leaving the witness to stare at his wake. Sisyphus froze at his approach, forcing the bile that was rising in his throat. He pushed back the fear gripping his heart and painfully stared into the innocent, blue-eyes of his nephew. Of course, aside from Sisyphus, his partner, and a few relatives, Regulus was unaware that he had an uncle working on the homicide division.

He pushed back the memories of his elder brother and forced himself to pay attention to the twenty-five-year-old that made his approach. He had heard the news that his nephew got hitched. How he would've loved to have met his wife. But his chances of meeting her were slim to none.

Regulus was sent for adoption when his elder brother, and young wife, had died of a terrible lung disease. Sisyphus was ten when he heard the news. How he wished he could've known. Of course, at a young age, he was incapable of doing anything. With no parents himself, and raised by kind people, Sisyphus held no chance for caring for his nephew.

If only that was possible; if only Ilias had never left home to a foreign place that he never heard of than surely Regulus would've lived with him. But as he bitterly stared into the eyes of an energetic man, he realized that the 'what if's' could never become a sheer reality as he greeted his nephew with a stern hello.

"He's a bit impatient, but he's ready for you," Regulus said.

He gave a pat on his shoulder. "Good job, Stuart."

Regulus smiled. "It's quite an honor that you know me by name, Detective."

"I heard that you persuaded a robber from committing a crime."

"Well, talking sure helps—and boy, I love to talk. That robber just needed a voice of reason. Anyway, I have to help my partner with the reporters." He leaned forward slightly like a child ready to tell a secret. "By the way, go easy on the guy. He had a rough morning."

"Sure thing, kid."

He gave another grin and departed toward his partner's side. Sisyphus watched him go, pushing back his regret of never informing the young officer of his thirty-five-year-old, blood-related uncle. He turned and met El Cid's eyes. There was that look of understanding, of compassion and helplessness. It drew him in easily to forget about the sorrow that plagued his heart.

If there was anyone that can understand it was El Cid. He held his dark secrets close to his heart. Not even his relatives, friends, and Sisyphus knew about his dark world—until one day Sisyphus took a glimpse into his world when he found a man doing his best to support his mother whom suffered from a heavy stroke.

And then in one dismal morning in late June, she was gone. No funeral was held. No one would come anyway. But Sisyphus knew that look in Cid's eye. It was the look of a murder staring at their hateful hands in regret.

Not wanting to break, Sisyphus managed to compose himself and turned his attention to Shion Steel. From the corner of his eye, El Cid took out his pad and pencil. Shion hugged his torso and gave them an impassive expression. But Sisyphus knew that he was also ready for the questioning to begin. He took a few steps forward and stood in front of his old-time friend.

Shion, a twenty-nine-year-old Tibetan, never changed from his appearance. He still sported his long, blond-hair, and carried those most expressionist brown-eyes that Sisyphus had ever seen. His complexion was pale and his lips thin. He had an athletic frame—lean but muscular.

Sisyphus greeted him with a soft smile. He returned one as well.

"Sad that we meet this way," Shion spoke, voice strained with pain. "Let's cut to the chase."

Sisyphus swallowed thickly the lump in his throat. It was difficult to treat his friend as witness. "Yuzuriha Crest was your fiancée?"

Shion chuckled bitterly. "You should know that one. Oh, rather El Cid should know that one." He took a glance at El Cid from behind. "But, yes, she was my fiancée."

"How long have you've known her?"

"Since childhood. But if I have to be exact, twenty-six-years." He shifted his weight on his left foot.

"Did she tell you where she was heading last night?"

He silently looked away. "She called me from a payphone after she finished work. Said she will be home in an hour; her brother was picking her up."

"Where does she work, Mr. Steel?"

Shion smiled wryly. "Calling me by my last name now, Sisyphus?"

Sisyphus held his breath. Shion was not making this easy for him. Luckily, El Cid spoke for him, "It is part of the procedure, _M__r. Steel_."

"Sure it is." He hugged his torso tighter. "Hanks & Beer—that's where she works. It's on 4th and Main. Can't miss it." He brought a hand to his face, shielding his eyes in self-loathing. With a sigh, he shook his head and lowered his hand. "If only I insisted on picking her up, she wouldn't have…"

"It wasn't your fault, Mr. Steel," Sisyphus comforted, giving a small, self-deprecating smile.

Shion looked away, not acknowledging his words.

"When time did you receive the call from the killer?"

Shion let out a breath, concentrating immensely on his memories. "Four… Maybe a little after. I would say 4:15 a.m. to be exact."

"What did he say?"

Shion shrugged. "He was babbling about something. I didn't understand at first. But he kept repeating that, 'her body was near the police division on Beale Avenue. Go west and head up the hill of where the old banner of the city lay," he recited. "And then he hanged up."

"Will you be able to pinpoint him in a lineup if you heard his voice?"

Shion shook his head. "No. He changed his voice quite often—sometimes it was rough, sometimes it sounded feminine. I thought I was going nuts hearing him."

"What happened after the call?"

He paused for a moment and then spoke, "I thought it was just another prank call. I get a lot of those. But the thought just unsettled me so I decided to investigate to ease my nerves."

"When I got here," he continued, "it was 5:10." He scrunched his eyebrows in thought. "I searched below—found nothing. I kept thinking it was a joke. But as I headed up the hill, I found h-h-her…" He took a step back, shaking his head. His eyes began to water. "It was a mess. I couldn't even breathe. I couldn't even look at her."

Sisyphus kept silent. His partner took over the questioning. "Why did you call the police an hour later? Why not sooner?"

There was a fury in Shion's eyes that Sisyphus did not expect. He staggered back when Shion leaned forward and began to point a finger at the man behind him. "What! You think I can automatically function when seeing something like that! You think I can get over the fact that my fiancée is on the ground dead! Yeah, I didn't call it in sooner because I was too busy tormented over the fact that my woman was dead!"

Sisyphus pushed Shion back before he took a swing at his partner but Shion kept persisting, pressing his body closer to his frame. "If you can manage to do your job correctly, none of this would've happened!"

"Calm down, Mr. Steel. It was a mere question." El Cid managed to keep his composure calm at the hurtled insults directed toward his direction. Swiftly, he steered the conversation to the next question, "What of her brother?"

Shion panted and leaned back, his rear hitting the side of a police cruiser. "What about him?" he spat.

"He's missing, Mr. Steel."

And just like that his expression contorted into pain. "_Oh,_ _Jesus_. It can't be him." He rubbed his face. Slowly, his anger was subsiding. "I spoke to him last night."

"At what time?"

"An hour after Yuzuriha called. That was at 8:30."

"Do you remember what he said to you?" Sisyphus spoke.

Shion instantly looked up and shook his head. "No, not at all."

The Tibetan turned his eyes to a side, and tightly balled his fists. His expression became grave, not a single ounce of sorrow was left on his face. El Cid knew that it was a lie. He turned his head when Sisyphus glanced at him. He noticed it as well.

Taking the situation in his hands, El Cid sternly advised Shion, "Mr. Crest's last whereabouts are highly important. Any information is necessary to save another victim." Shion glared at the black-haired detective. "Now, what did Mr. Crest say?"

"Said he stopped at a gas station—Stanley's Gas Station—and asked if I needed anything. That was it."

He diverted his attention to a side. He was still holding back information. Sisyphus couldn't understand the reason.

"You're hiding something, Shion," Sisyphus pressed. "I know it."

"Back to civility, _Sterling_. You're a real work." He lowered his arms to his sides. "Unless you have valuable proof that I know something, I would suggest you back off. Have a good day, _Detectives_." He turned on his heel and walked around the police cruiser toward his vehicle.

Sisyphus watched him leave, muttering under his breath, "We'll keep in touch, Shion."

Fixing his fedora hat, and taking his eyes away from Shion's departure, he too returned to his car with his partner in tow. He took a last glance at the billboard up the hill and scowled at the yellow lettering that spelled welcome. This city was no longer the same. It was once overruled with petty crimes with justice on its trail.

Now with a serial killer on the loose, Sisyphus knew that the city would fall into fear. The people will bar their windows and locked their doors with extra security. He hated the feeling of fear and its negative influence on the people. It always brought trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Zelos Smith took another swing of his booze and drowned the bottle in a smile of contentment. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved his slow feet toward his home eight miles west of Main Street. Ten in the morning and he still wasn't drunk. He hated his life. Bad unfortunate occurrences happened to him daily.

Why just this morning, before he went down to Stanley's Gas Station to buy three bottles of liquor, he had the best job he could ever dream of. Lucky's Dealership—the only place where cheap, affordable cars were placed at a high price if sold to the right idiot. He knew how to play his cards right—that is until he said a lewd comment to a coworker about their boss's wife, which in turn said coworker "accidentally" mentioned it to the boss, Rhadamanthys Martin.

Next thing he knew—_wham_—fired! He was kicked to the curb like a dog being kicked out of the house. Boy, how he hated his life. Aside from being the ugliest son-of-a-bitch roaming on this earth, bad luck followed behind his steps.

The only thing that kept him going was his pretty wife at home. But, heck, even he knew that blissful happiness wouldn't last. He'd seen how she looked at the neighbor next door, mowing the lawn with no shirt. Why compared to his saggy bag that young man had a six-pack to show.

Zelos Smith never had nothing good coming to his life. Abandoned since birth, doing petty crime, serving time, and losing a job, he took another drink of his booze and welcomed the next unfortunate thing to come rolling into his life. He glanced up and stared to his left. White letters greeted his eye with a big sign that said, "Hanks & Beer".

He continued on, almost missing his step. Crossing the street, he looked at the ground, fascinated at the patterns that seemed to swirl in his eye. His concentration shattered when he felt a rough shoulder collide with his, stumbling a bit after. He turned his violent eyes toward the culprit and found a man staring at him apologetically.

"Sorry." His voice sounded soft, but behind it Zelos detected a bit of an attitude. He was one of those silent types that exploded when pushed. Zelos frowned and watched him reach for his black, fedora hat that had fallen upon the sidewalk.

There was something familiar about the man in front of him. Zelos couldn't place his finger on it but he knew he'd seen him before. His memory was hazy. In fact, he felt the world spinning a bit. It seemed the booze was finally doing its stuff. Still he focused his attention on the man who was about to leave, trying to figure out where he'd seen him.

"Hey!" He pointed a finger at him. The blond turned his head. "I know you!"

The man began to cross the street and denied ever meeting him before.

Zelos rubbed his head. Maybe the man was right. Perhaps he didn't know him. Perhaps it was the booze that was spurring nonsense out of his lips. No, he was positive that he'd seen that man before. He just couldn't remember at the moment.

xx

Fixing his fedora hat, Sisyphus ignored the drunk and made his way across the street.

The blare of a car horn sounded loudly behind him. Sisyphus turned his head and caught his partner strolling down the street, hands in his pocket, and giving a glare to the driver. The driver merely sent him the finger and took a turn down 4th street, heading toward Orange and Maple. El Cid shrugged off the rude gesture like dust on a seat and stood next to his partner, ignoring the faint smile tinting his lips.

"Let's get inside and question the owner," El Cid said. Sisyphus turned his attention toward the building in front of him and made his approach toward the door.

Hanks & Beer, a local restaurant, had a red-brick design and square windows with the name printed in white lettering on one of them. The sun shone from the west and obscured the view from inside. But he faintly noticed a couple of people sitting near the window, sipping from a white cup and eating their meal.

He inched forward, ready to question the owner. With the hectic day he was having, he hoped he would get some answers.

Then in a matter of seconds a whirlwind of destruction lanced through the peaceful setting when the sound of a gun went off. Seconds followed after that, a woman screamed. The customers began to rush out in a scramble, fear evidently seen across their expressions. Another shot went off and a man flew to the ground, blood oozing from his back. The front door, made of glass, was left wide open, jammed in between the wall and the dead body.

Sisyphus pulled out his gun from his holster. El Cid crept from behind him, gun ready. He pressed his back against the bricked-wall entrance. His partner was a few feet away from him, waiting for the signal.

Sisyphus poked his head inside and found a man sprawled on the floor, black slacks and a white, button-up shirt with crimsons dots scattered in patterns. He was laid on his back, one arm resting on his chest, the other near his hip. Blood oozed from behind his head and splattered across his face. The bullet went straight through his forehead.

The gunman stood a few feet away from the kitchen door. Wearing a plastic clown mask, an oversized brown, hooded-jacket, and black boots, the gunman was lost in a trance, staring at the body that he had shot.

"BSPD! Lower your weapon!" Sisyphus shouted, aiming his gun at the gunman. In one second, the gunman awoke from his daze and shot at the window. Sisyphus turned his head from the sprinkle of glass shattering in the air. He heard it crash into the floor, breaking into smaller pieces before the sound muffled into silence.

Snapping to attention, he watched the gunman disappear into the kitchen. Sisyphus chased after him. El Cid stayed behind, calling for an ambulance and backup. Bursting through the kitchen and heading toward the backdoor, Sisyphus stood in the middle of the alleyway and turned his head left and right.

He found his killer on the right, dashing into Main Street, horns blaring madly. Sisyphus sprinted toward the disturbance. A Ford coupé crashed into another vehicle. There was glass lying on the floor. Fumes from the engines clouded up in a smoke of white. There was another Ford vehicle resting on the sidewalk. It crashed into a black lamppost.

Sisyphus ran past the destruction and chased the gunman down the sidewalk. Citizens jumped to a side and allowed the gunman and the detective to pass. There was a woman, who did not pay attention to the murmurs of fear ahead, who was pushed to a side and met the ground in a thud. A man came to her aid and shouted at the gunman. Sisyphus merely kept on going.

The gunman turned to the right and headed into an alleyway. Sisyphus turned as well and brought his gun up. There was a scream behind him wrapped in fear. Onlookers began to eavesdrop on the scene. Sisyphus had to ignore their wandering eyes and pay attention to the gunman.

"Stop!" he commanded. The gunman had no intention of stopping.

He aimed his gun and fired. The bullet grazed the gunman's arm. He stumbled forward but still continued to run with a hand pressed against his blood wound. Chasing after him, Sisyphus followed him across the street. Within reach, he almost had the son-of-a-bitch, but he got distracted when he heard the roar of a vehicle's engine accelerate toward him.

An old, rusty green pickup truck came barreling toward him in a high-speed. His blue eyes grew wide in fear. He never thought that death would greet him at the age of thirty-five. He could hear his heart beat loudly in his ears; he could feel the adrenaline running through his veins. Every instinct in his body told him to _move_ but he stood frozen on the spot, unable to look away from the approaching pickup truck.

The seconds grew painfully slow. Time, he thought, had surely stopped.

In the driver's seat, he noticed a similar mask to the gunman stare right back at him. He felt powerless and immobile that he began to surrender himself to fate. But in those slow, agonizing seconds, he could see a streak of red and violet hair erratically fly and cover the hood with a deep crimson. He could hear the bones crush; the glass window shattering and appearing like a spider web. He could hear the thud; the tires screeching into a scraping halt. And in those last seconds of life, he could see his wild eyes reflect in the rearview mirror.

Even now, even in his last moments of life, the past could never leave him alone. He shut his eyes and felt that time was resuming back into order. Opening his eyes slowly, the pickup truck was approaching faster, and his name, though faintly heard, was increasing louder.

And before the truck hit his body and shatter his bones, he met the gravel road and the edge of a sidewalk instead. He felt a body press against his own, and heard heavy breathing. A gruesome headache assaulted his brain when his head met the ground in an excruciating thud.

But that did not matter for he was given a second chance. He was spared from being rammed by a heavy object. Looking at the body above him, he stared into his partner's eyes for a moment. El Cid scrambled to his feet and stared at the escaping vehicle that the gunman had gotten into.

El Cid took in a breath and sat on the edge of the sidewalk, hugging his knees. He looked at Sisyphus who took a seat next to him and panted heavily.

"Next time…" He paused to take a breath. "…we take the car."

Sisyphus agreed to his partner's advice.


End file.
